


There's always room for one more

by Arkiex



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Forgotten Memories, Gen, Happy Ending, Sad Sarge, possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkiex/pseuds/Arkiex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things are happening to Sarge in the days after the ship crash. What happened to the Warthog? Where are the blues? Why are Grif and Simmons getting along? Why are these memories haunting his thoughts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's always room for one more

**Author's Note:**

> One shot about Sarge. I tried to be angsty and sad.  
> My 20th birthday is tomorrow. Woot Woot!

        “Dammit, Grif!” Sarge's voiced echoed in the canyon. He was particularly enraged with the orange armored soldier because he wasn't playing the game right. Sarge's favorite game, Pop-Goes-The-Grif, was one of the few things that helped pass the time in this butt crack of a canyon and it was Grif's job to run around while being shot at. Ten points if a bullet hits the arms or legs, and twenty for a head shot. The problem was that Grif just wasn't into the game anymore. Well, he was never really into the game itself as much as he was into staying alive. Today, Grif just didn't seem to care one way or the other.

  
        “Grif! You're supposed to run when you get shot at!” scorned Simmons who was standing just behind Sarge. Grif shrugged his sholders in a half-ass manor.

       “Why bother?” he sighed and attempted to walk off before a bullet grazed the front of his helmet.

        “Where do you think you're going, Dirtbag?” Sarge gritted.

  
        “Simmons, this is bullshit.” Grif ignored Sarge and looked to Simmons. Obviously, Sarge was fully insulted. This Dick-whistle of a soldier just up an ignored a question from his superior, again!

  
        “Grif!” Sarge shouted to the obstinate soldier again.

  
        “Just do as he says, dude.” Simmons' voice dripped with something that he wasn't used to hearing from Simmons. The more he thought about it, the more unsure he felt. He suddenly didn't feel like playing the game anymore. Sarge lowered his gun, maybe the Blues would be more fun to kill.

  
        “Sir?” questioned the Maroon one but whatever he was going to say was hushed by Grif. A simple hand on a comrade shoulder was all anyone else would have seen, but not Sarge. He's seen it before, he couldn't bare to see it again. He walked away with a quickened step.

  
        The Blue Base wasn't much fun either. The base was practically empty. It was just like the time that Sarge accidentally gave Donut free reign to do spring cleaning. There was hardly any sign that the Blues were here. Even Caboose's giant robot pet was no where to be seen. With nothing else to occupy his time, he set up his own makeshift shooting range with whatever he could find in the base: a bucket, a large wooden crate, and an old burlap sack of sand. As he set himself up to shoot, old images from his past kept littering his mind. No matter how many times he shot at his target, his mind couldn't focus. He kept seeing an old barn with a man sitting inside. He began remembering a woman's soft voice, or was it Simmon's. Was that soft touch on his shoulder belong to her, or Grif?

  
        CLICK. Sarge looked down to discover that he hadn't been paying attention to his shooting and had run out of ammo. Sarge cursed internally. He checked his storage pockets to find extra rounds but came back empty. He would have to return to base to get more.The trek back to his base was a confusing one. The wild grasses seemed higher than they had been. Finally, came the big heart break. The Warthog, which he cared for flawlessly, was disheveled. The wheels were missing, the hood was up and dented. Wild grasses and vines ensnared the metal carcass. It looked like a wreck! Sarge screamed in fear, though he will deny it to his death, and charged toward his baby.

  
        “Oh. No.” he sobbed. “Baby, who did this to you?”

  
        “Um... Sarge?” The Red commander turned sharply to his men. Both Simmons and Grif were standing side by side without any disgust for each other, rather... solemn. They seemed to be a singular being, a unit. Like two, tired parents preparing to deliver bad news.

  
        “Which one of you pricks did this to the Warthog?”

  
        “You can see the Warthog, now?” Simmons asked with genuine surprise. However, that wasn't the response that was desired. A growl emanated from the aged soldier.

  
        “I told you, man. Time's up.” Grif bumped the front of Simmons' armor with his knuckles. The scene was oozing with camaraderie, and non of it was directed at him.

  
        “What in the Sam Hill are you two talking about? I demand an answer!” Sarge bellowed, raising his rifle on instinct. Grif was the first to answer.

  
        “What all do you remember from the crash?” he inquired.

  
        Sarge was prepared to answer but something stilled him. He remembered looking for something but not being able to find it. He never recalled finding it. Something about that fact puzzled him. He felt pain in his chest. Sarge wanted to shrug it off as heartburn but he knew better. He felt this pain in that same memory as a child. An old man living on a farm, alone. Why couldn't he do something to help? Why was he forgotten?

  
        “Sir?” Sarge was stirred from his thoughts. His eyes shifted from Grif to Simmons as reality hit him.

  
        “The Blues didn't survive the crash, did they?” He barely managed to control the trembling in his voice. Neither of them answered, they didn't need to. Sarge was remembering. He couldn't find them. He searched the rubble and all throughout the canyon. There was no sign of life.

  
        “You guys... didn't make it either.” It wasn't a question. It was fact. Sarge was the only one to survive the crash that day. Alone in a canyon.

  
        “No, sir. We didn't.” Simmons faced Sarge. Grif couldn't even raise his eyes to meet his old C.O. “And after you ran out of food supplies, it didn't matter anymore. You only saw what you wanted to see.” Sarge began so shake in anger. He became his worst nightmare. He turned away from them, grateful that his helmet concealed the tears cascading down from his eyes.

  
        “Well go on then. No one said you had to stay to console a crazy ol' dirtbag like me.” his lips trembled as he spoke those words. Truely, he thought, I am alone.

  
        “Well, we were actually hoping you would ride with us... you know,” Simmons paused halfway through his thought, “to the other side.” Finally Grif spoke up.

  
        “There's always room for one more... or, so I'm told.” His voice was nonchalant but earnest. But, this could not be. Not this. Not from Grif.

  
        “Why?”

  
        “We couldn't leave our commander behind.” Simmons raised his arm in a salute to his hero. Sarge looked to Grif who was avoiding his gaze.  
As weird as it sounds, Sarge really did feel his heart grow a little spot just big enough for those two idiots who wouldn't leave their leader behind.

 

THE MEMORY:  
        “Grampa. Grampa!” the young boy shook his grandfather's hand only to have a pair of clouded eyes stare blankly back at him. “It's me, Grampa! Me!” the young boy insisted.

  
        “Who?” The old man's voice was dry and wispery as if it had gone unused for many years. Tears fell from the boy's cheeks and onto his overalls. He lost his grandfather a long time ago. Only this mindless shell was left behind. The boy had made many attempts to help him regain his sanity with no avail. He would never be held or loved by this man every again. The boy's shoulders slumped forward as a soft hand rested at the base of his neck.

  
        “Son? Grampa can't remember us, anymore?” The sound of a woman's voice made him turn to face her. The boy's mother crouched forward to meet him eye to eye.

  
        “But why? I'm right here.” the boy sobbed.

  
        “He's in his own little world now,” She insisted, “With all of his battle buddies from the war.” A man, the boys father, approached from behind the Grandfather's chair and crouched down beside his wife. The man's eyes were filled with sympathy.

  
        “Pops gonna be leavin' soon.” He said calmly. When the boy asked where his Grampa was going, the sympathy in the man's eyes only grew and he remained silent.

  
        “Grampa is going to see Grandma up in Heaven.” The boy's mother spoke from the heart but her lips began to tremble. Deep down, the boy new she was saying that for the both of them to hear. The boy's father stood up pulling his wife along with him.

  
        “'Bout time we left. The nurse juss finished settin' up in the back room.” He spoke to his wife with his hands wrapped around her back. She nodded and whisked a tear from her eyelash, sighing. As they walked to the front door, she turned to look back at her son.

  
        “You coming, Lil' Sargent?” she asked. “There's always room for one more.”

  
        Lil' Sargent. The boy will never hear that pet name leave his grandfather's lips anymore. Those years in the Army changed Grampa and the boy wanted to be a hero just like him. No longer will he be “Lil' Sargent.” From now on, he would be Sarge. And above all, he would never, ever suffer the fate of his grandfather.


End file.
